POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  “Standby to recover aircraft.” The command echoed throughout the ship and the carrier completed her swing into the wind. Red lights were switched on all over the flight deck and the island, bathing the vessel in their glow. To anyone observing from afar, the LBJ appeared as a surreal ghost ship floating on a painted sea. The red light theme was not used for the purpose of creating strange, nighttime effects, but to save lives. And those were the lives of the returning pilots and the deck crews. White lights blind, and a blind man on a carrier deck working amidst moving jet fighters and whipsawing metal cables would soon be a dead man. For an unfortunate few, this has been a swift and final fate.

  For the next forty-five minutes, they huddled in conference with the admiral, the senior ship's officers, the air wing staff, and the flag command staff.

  The planes were recovered without incident, yet by the end of the meeting no one had answers. Manny Eisenhour believed they should cease flight operations until the problem was identified and solved, but the admiral nixed that idea. He argued that the flight crews should be thoroughly briefed on the continuing possibility of weather-induced communications problems, but the most important warning would be to stay alert while airborne.

  “Gentlemen, we can’t let this incident keep us from our mission, so let’s get our planes back in the air.” Admiral Taylor’s tone of voice told everyone the meeting was over.

  CHAPTER 9

  Monday mid-morning – June 21st

  Fleming and Lafayette were flying one hundred miles northwest of the carrier, and the Island of Sardinia stretched out below them to the southwest, while Italy’s shoreline remained an unseen 220 miles to their east. They had been in the air for thirty minutes, one of eighteen planes the LBJ had launched.

  “Repeat, I didn’t get that,” Fleming now said into his headphones.

  “I asked if you get the heebie jeebies flying with us Navy types? Worries that you didn't have flying with the Air Force. Maybe it's a difficult question to answer,” Lafayette added lamely. “Also, maybe it’s a really dumb question.”

  “No it's not dumb, Chuck,'' Fleming replied. “However, there is one thing that does give me the heebie jeebies, and that’s the thought of a “cold cat.” But from listening to the other guys, I guess it's something most of them think about at one time or another. You ever seen one?”

  “Not in person,” said Lafayette. “Just the standard footage of the one on the Oriskany shot during the Vietnam War. It was a pretty grim thing to watch.”

  Both flyers knew that the “cold cat” they were discussing was a condition that might occur during one in ten thousand airplane launches from a carrier deck. And it’s never a pretty sight. It happens when a catapult releases without a full head of steam, but still attempts to hurl a jet into the air. Because there is no power, or insufficient power at best, the aircraft flounders helplessly along the deck trying the impossible task of gaining enough speed to fly. Inevitably, it crashes into the ocean, and before anyone can react, the carrier traveling at well over thirty knots will churn the plane under its bow to be lost forever. This all takes place within a matter of seconds, and there is never any hope of recovering the crew. Little wonder carrier pilots don't like to dwell on that prospect, though oftentimes they will do that just before a launch while the plane is straining against its harness. The possibility this will be that one time flashes through many an unwilling mind. It's a very uncommon occurrence, Fleming now reminded himself, and anyway, it’s impossible with these new maglev catapults.

  Fleming and Lafayette had flown all their missions together and were now a team. Each implicitly trusted in the other's ability to perform his function smoothly and professionally. They weren't close friends, although they often chatted in the ready room. Each had his own circle of acquaintances, but in the air, they complemented one another perfectly.

  “So, what do you make of the recent communications blackouts, Dave?” Lafayette now asked.

  “Nobody seems to have an explanation,” he continued, his mind primarily focused on monitoring his screens. “I spoke with a couple of the guys who were up there last night, and they admitted things got real hairy, real fast. Not just that they couldn’t speak to the CDC, but for a few minutes, they couldn't even talk to each other. Some said that all their glass cockpit displays went completely black. And this was all happening while the weather was clear, and visibility was unlimited. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense, huh?”

  Fleming frowned, remembering his conversation with Joel Hirshberger yesterday evening down in the meteorological department.

  Hirshberger had told him of the meeting with the skipper and the admiral, and how both had expressed their frustration over the incidents and were deeply troubled by the lack of answers. “It's tied into the weather, Dave, I'm sure of it now,” Hirshberger had said. “I've been in this business for more than two decades, and I’ve never seen anything like this. Something bad is going to happen, and when it does, it will be an unmitigated disaster.”

  “I’m starting to agree with you,” Fleming had said. “CAG told us there had been thoughts of cancelling all further flying until we got some answers, but the admiral nixed that idea and said we would stay at flight quarters until contrary orders came from him personally. The mission briefers have warned us to be alert for possible communications blackouts and instrument malfunctions. Most of the pilots I know are acting like it isn't getting to them, but there's a palpable undercurrent of nervousness in the wardrooms. And then having that Russian sub surfacing right under our noses sure has added to the jitters.”

  Now, cruising at twenty-eight thousand feet and moving at five hundred seventy knots, his mind was on full alert. His eyes swept his instruments for the umpteenth time. Everything was normal, and communications between the other planes and the CDC were loud and clear.

  The mission profile had called for a simple patrol. The eighteen aircraft would fly in pairs on equidistant headings from the carrier, each two-ship maintaining forty degrees of separation from the next pair, thus covering the entire three hundred sixty degrees of the compass. The flight plans called for them to fly outbound for forty minutes, execute an echelon turn to port, intercept their new headings twenty degrees less than the outbound one, and return to the carrier. Recovery would be in order of launch unless any aircraft declared an inflight emergency or squawked a critical fuel condition. Fleming was flying lead with Hamilton his wingman. There was no indication this would be anything other than a routine flight.

  Within seconds that all changed.

  “Major, I'm losing my radar return,” said Lafayette, subconsciously signaling his concern by addressing Fleming by rank.

  “Does it look like an equipment malfunction?” Fleming asked, instantly alerted to the potential seriousness of the problem.

  “Negative, Sir, everything’s normal, it's just that we're not painting anything. On the long range sweep I've even lost contact with the strike group.”

  “Stand by, let me check with Hamilton.'' He changed from intercom to transmit. “Liberty two, this is lead.” He waited a couple of seconds No response. He called again. Nothing. The third time, he raised the Combat Direction Center. Their signal was weak and broken.

  “Bigfoot, this is Liberty one,” he said, identifying himself to the carrier. “We're having comm difficulties raising Liberty two. We're inbound and experiencing radar malfunctions.” His eyes darted to the instrument panel. What he saw made him do a doubletake. The computer-generated instruments on his glass cockpit display screens were now all malfunctioning, even his primary flight instruments which were controlled by static and atmospheric pressure were giving patently false readings. And this had taken place within a matter of seconds.

  Glancing outside, everything appeared normal. Where was Liberty two? There was no sign of his wingman. His eyes swept the sky on both sides of the Hornet and he checked both mirrors. Nothing! Hamilton had vanished! Visibility was unlimited with no sig
n of bad weather. A check with his magnetic compass assured him he was on course, and although his attitude indicator was showing he was in a fifteen-degree climbing turn to the right, all outside visual references said he was flying straight and level.

  “Bigfoot, this is Liberty one. I’ve lost Liberty two. All my instruments are now totally unreliable, not just my radio-nav screens, but even my mechanical instruments. I'm resetting circuit breakers, but the problem is being caused from outside of the aircraft. Do you read, Bigfoot? Acknowledge.”

  There was no reply. He broadcast again. Only static. He switched back to intercom.

  “We’ve got problems, Chuck. I'm heading directly to the last known position of the carrier. We should be back in the pattern within twenty minutes. Right now, fuel is not a worry, so if we have to divert to a land base in Italy, then that’s what we’ll do. How are you doing back there?”

  “I’m not sure, Major.” Lafayette said, sounding worried. “I'm getting a radar return showing like we're inside a barrel, and it’s shrinking around us real fast. Major, my advice is to slow down to maneuvering speed. It's probably an equipment malfunction, but I sure don't like it.”

  Fleming immediately complied by easing back on the throttles and opening his speed brake. The whine of the engines became deeper as their airspeed bled off, and the deployed speed brake created a rumble uniquely its own. The fighter rapidly lost speed, and when the airspeed indicator showed one hundred and fifty knots. he came back with the power and retracted the speed brake. He had made the decision not to power all the way down to maneuvering speed simply because he no longer trusted any of his instruments. He wanted that built-in margin of safety in case he had to spool the engines up quickly, light the afterburners, and hightail it out of harm’s way.

  Before he had time to relay his intentions to Lafayette, there was a blinding flash of emerald-colored light followed by an external explosion. The Hornet was instantly flung violently onto its back and pushed into an inverted flat spin. For a couple of moments Fleming’s world turned dark as he fought to control the plane. He realized he was blacking out from the sudden, acceleration-induced force-loading effects on his body, but before he could gather his thoughts, daylight returned, the plane was flying upright, and the air was smooth. He willed away the sensation of impending vertigo by fixing his eyes on the magnetic compass, a trick used by pilots to confirm their spatial orientation with their surroundings. The unsettling experience lasted less than five seconds. He nudged the Hornet back onto its original heading.

  “You OK back there, Chuck?”

  “Holy shit, Dave, what the hell happened? I must have blacked out for a couple of seconds. I was about to warn you to brace yourself, but before I could say a word, we were being tossed around like a kid’s rag doll. And that green flash of light! I’ve never seen anything like it.” He paused for a long moment, then added in a puzzled voice, “Check this out. My screens are functioning normally again, but I can’t seem to paint the strike group, or any other airborne objects out to a range of forty miles. But I am getting a clear return from the small island grouping below, so I know the down looking radar is working again. I can also see a few blips on the surface which I’m guessing are fishing vessels. Man, this is way beyond weird.”

  Fleming scanned his own instruments, baffled by what he was seeing. Those which relied on atmospheric pressure to function, appeared to be operating normally, but all his radio-navigation instruments were dead. It was beyond weird.

  “At least the plane seems to be in good shape,” Fleming said, rocking the wings as he spoke. He tested the rudder and elevators, then brought the engines up to max military power while closely monitoring their performance. Everything checked out normal. His fuel flow meter showed he had enough gas on board for about thirty more minutes flying time, maybe more, if he conserved. He wasn't too concerned, knowing he would be back aboard the LBJ in half that time.

  He tried raising the carrier again to no avail, and after a frustrating few minutes, decided to call Approach Control at Rome's Fiumicino Airport. He dialed in 125.5 and listened. Nothing. He shrugged, then dialed Naples International Airport Approach on frequency 125.35. Nothing. Even the static doesn't sound right, he thought, then began dialing in random channels. Nothing anywhere. As a last resort, he slowly worked through the AM band hoping to pick up any civilian broadcasts. The results were equally disappointing.

  “Chuck, we seem to have lost our radios,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice so as not to alarm his backseater. “Seems we're on our own, at least for the moment.” He felt a cold sweat forming under his mask and flightsuit.

  Wait until Joel Hirshberger hears about this little escapade, he thought, as he scanned the water below, looking for the carrier and the rest of the strike group. All he saw was an empty sea from horizon to horizon.

  “See anything on your radar yet, Chuck?” Fleming asked, his voice hopeful. “We should be coming up on the strike group.”

  “Nothing, and I don't understand it because my radar is painting normally. There’s no sign of the LBJ anywhere.”

  Fleming continued to visually scan outside the plane. This was now more than just spooky! Another check with the standby magnetic compass confirmed that he was still heading in the right direction, yet somehow an entire strike group of United States Navy ships had vanished. He realized fuel was definitely going to be a problem now, and he didn’t have enough left to start hunting for the carrier. He made a decision and turned the plane eastward.

  “Something's very wrong, Chuck,” Fleming finally conceded, “so instead of trying to find the answers out here over the water, I think our best bet is to press on to Rome. We’re still good on fuel, but I want you to prepare to eject in case the worst should happen, and we find ourselves having to depart company with this bird rather fast.”

  “Understood, Dave,” came the reply from the rear cockpit. “Do you want me to broadcast an SOS as we head for the coast?”

  “Negative. We know we aren't receiving, so in all probability we’re not being picked up by anyone. I need you to concentrate on getting squared away. Doublecheck your survival gear.”

  “Dave, I have a thought,” said Lafayette. “Maybe our transmitter is working, and possibly our receivers are also. Let me activate my emergency locator beacon while you monitor the guard channel, and let’s see if my signal is getting picked up on our own radios.”

  Fleming thought the idea was brilliant. Lafayette would activate his survival radio which would automatically begin broadcasting a simultaneous distress signal on 121.5 MHz and 406 MHz. At the same time, he would tune his aircraft radio to the same frequency to see if a signal were coming through. These international distress frequencies, known as guard channels to all pilots, were dedicated to civilian and military flyers, and continuously monitored by airports around the world.

  “Good thinking, let’s give it a try.” Fleming dialed in the right frequency and waited. Seconds later he picked up the signal being broadcast from the rear cockpit. That left no doubt in his mind now. The Hornet’s radios were functioning normally.

  “Your signal's loud and clear, Chuck.” This only added to Fleming’s sense of unease. If the plane’s radios were working, then why weren’t they able to pick up any communications from the strike group, or any of the dozens of civilian stations throughout the region? He shook his head. The answer eluded him.

  “Chuck, as soon as you have yourself squared away, and if I give you the word, start broadcasting a mayday and keep broadcasting a continual update of our position. Maybe someone out there will pick it up.”

  “Roger that.”

  Fleming concentrated on flying, and ten uneventful minutes later, the Italian coastline of central Italy slipped by beneath their wings. They now had fifteen minutes of fuel on board. He checked his own survival gear, which included his handheld radio, his 9MM Glock, and his iPhone and charger, which he always carried while flying. Most pilots he knew d
id the same just in case they had to divert to a land base from the ship. All agreed on one thing: nothing would be worse than being stranded in a strange city without a phone.

  As they flew inland, Fleming began noticing that the land mass below didn’t look quite right. And then it hit him. There were no primary or secondary roads, but the one most glaringly obvious fact was that there were no cars to be seen anywhere!

  “Chuck, my compass must have precessed. We’re slipping off course, so I'm going down on the deck for a better look-see, and to get my bearings.”

  “Roger.”

  With throttles back to idle and the speed brake extended, the fighter dropped easily towards the ground. Leveling off at a thousand feet, Fleming took up a new northbound heading, now hugging the coastline. A few minutes later he spotted a harbor below and made a low-level pass over the small bay dotted with boats, while taking in the clusters of houses and other types of buildings strung out along its waterfront.

  Lafayette spoke first. “Where in the hell are we? I don't recognize a damn thing down there. It looks like a cheap, frigging movie set.” The worry in his voice was now very real.

  Fleming said nothing but banked sharply, made a shallow 360 degree turn while dropping further down to three hundred feet, then powered back to maneuvering speed. Both now saw a sea of upturned faces following their progress. Soon, some in the crowd began acting scared and confused, pointing fingers up at them. Then, as if on command, they all began running for cover.

  Fleming’s low fuel warning light winked once, winked again, and “Bitchin’ Betty’s” digitalized voice began ordering him to ‘return to base’ by repeating ‘Bingo, Bingo,’ in his ear in her distinctive, Tennessee twang. The moment of truth had arrived. With nowhere to land, and less than 2000 pounds of gas left in the tanks, Fleming pushed the throttles forward and began climbing to gain as much altitude as possible.